


It's Not Always Going to Be This Grey

by oilpainter



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1969, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Holding Hands, Hugs, Implied Romance, Let It Be era, M/M, Panic Attacks, Ringo makes him feel better, Rooftop Concert (The Beatles), Social Anxiety, They're both in the closet (literally), They're both oblivious, george is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpainter/pseuds/oilpainter
Summary: George really doesn't want to go on the roof.
Relationships: George Harrison & Ringo Starr, George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 10
Kudos: 82





	It's Not Always Going to Be This Grey

A metal music stand clattered to the floor with a clang as George stumbled into the dark space. He leaned back, closing the door behind him and pushing the stand to the side with his feet. Breathing heavily, he slid down the door until he was sitting in a braced position, with knees folded up and his hands pulling at his long hair.  
  
 _Breathe - come on - in two three four... out two three four..._ he internally tried to calm himself down. _Don't be stupid... pull yourself together. In two three four... out two three four..._  
  
But it was no use; no matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to pull in any air.   
  
The pitch-black storage cupboard he was in certainly wasn't helping matters. It was the first quiet and solitary place he had come across while running through the corridors in the Apple building. At least it was away from people, away from anyone who could see him in such a state. But it felt like the walls were closing in - the walls might have been eight feet apart but in the empty darkness he couldn't tell. It was freezing cold, too, and cluttered. The sharp side of a cymbal was digging into his shoulder, but he couldn't bring himself to move.  
  
"Fuck..." he wheezed. "Fuck you, John."  
  
Back in the studio he hadn't been able to come up with anything witty against John's hurtful comments. He'd stood there for a few seconds, blinking rapidly in shock, before fleeing the room. God, he must have looked like such an idiot.   
  
Why was he being so over emotional? Maybe the stress had gotten to him... he was overwhelmed from being filmed 24/7 and not having a second of privacy, and Yoko was getting on his nerves, and Paul was always trying to tell him what to do... and _god damnit_ no one ever listened to what he had to say… and Brian was gone...  
  
And he didn't want to perform again... he didn't want to go up on that roof and have everyone staring at him... people mobbing him... pulling his hair and crushing him... screaming at him...  
  
George's hands were shaking, his heart felt like it was beating out of his chest and his mouth was dry. He felt so panicky and dizzy... possibly these could have been the lingering after-effects of what he'd taken last night. But no, he'd experienced this before. It was a panic attack.  
  
Last time this had happened, it was Shea Stadium. Five minutes before the start, he'd taken one glance at the huge crowd, with kids climbing over fences and being restrained by police officers. Then he'd retreated to the toilets to throw up his lunch and hyperventilate before making it onstage with ten seconds to spare. That wasn't so bad though - he'd been able to calm himself down. He'd just put it down to nerves.  
  
Were the walls closing in? They definitely were - the walls were moving and the shadow of a coat was swaying, its figure leering towards him threateningly... the drums were rattling and pounding in his ears… no that's not right... was the ground moving? Was he going to suffocate? Was he going to die alone here, in a dark cupboard?  
  
He managed to take in a few short, uneven puffs.  
  
There came a knock on the door. Then a familar voice took him out of his dizzy confusion.  
"- George? Hey, can you hear me, 's that you in there? You good, lad?"   
  
It was Ringo. Hearing his best friend outside the door grounded him and brought reality back with a jolt. The spinning room slowed until he stopped seeing two of everything. His vision was still a little blurry.  
  
"Uh - um," George breathed in sharply and fumbled with his words, trying to get across a sense of normality. "I'm just - yeah, yeah everything's gear." His voice cracked, going high pitched on the last syllables so it sounded more like a question. He winced. That didn't sound very convincing.  
  
"Well what are ye doing in a cupboard on the fourth floor? Barely anyone ever comes up 'ere," Ringo questioned, sounding worried and a little bemused. "And you don't sound so great. Paul said you've gone off to sulk ‘cause you and John argued and you ran out looking pissed off. What's goin' on?"  
  
The door handle above George's head moved down and he felt Ringo trying to nudge the door open.   
  
"No, don't - just need - space," George gasped. He stayed leaning against the cold metal of the door, pushing back against Ringo.  
  
Ringo wouldn't want to see him like this. The group of them were close friends (no matter how much it didn't seem so recently). But as Northern men who grew up in the roughness of 1950s Liverpool... they didn't _do_ feelings. It made them uncomfortable. Well, it made _John, Paul and George_ uncomfortable. Ringo was the sweetest, kindest person George knew. It was impossible not to like him. He had this quality that made you want to hug him, never let him go, and confess all your secrets and troubles. George aspired to be like Ringo one day; so happy, carefree and open. But for now... he wanted to stay closed off and alone. It was what was needed to survive in the current environment, with all the fights, arguments and picking sides.   
  
George was lonely. It felt like John, Paul and Ringo were happy doing their own thing and didn't want to hear what he had to say. He felt inferior - and replaceable. John was right - he wasn't contributing enough to the album, what he did write was shit, and he'd been acting spiteful and childish recently.   
  
The others couldn't know that he permanently felt suffocated and on edge. They couldn't know that he and Pattie were arguing and things were tense between them. How sometimes he woke up shaking, remembering nothing from his dreams except the image of an unmoving fetus in an ultrasound scan. And they certainly couldn't know that in his breaks he was either chain-smoking in the alleyway, popping pills, or sitting in a toilet cubicle trying to remember how to breathe. Even in meditation his thoughts wouldn't stop spinning round.  
  
"Can you let me in, Georgie?" Ringo asked softly, over George's uneven breaths. "I know you want to be left alone, but I don't think that's good for you right now. Maybe get some light in there, eh, open up the space a bit?"  
  
George paused for a moment then reluctantly shuffled to the side of the door so Ringo could open it. Maybe it would feel less claustrophobic if he could see where the walls actually were. It's not like he had been crying. Maybe he could pretend to be ok. After all, he couldn't hide in the cupboard forever.  
  
The door creaked and George's eyes, which had long since adjusted to the pitch black, were blinded by a stream of light. He blinked rapidly.  
  
"Oh, sure, you look happy as a button," Ringo said dryly.  
  
"That's... not a saying, Ritchie" George wheezed. He shifted so he was leaning against a set of broken drawers. His heart still felt like it was beating out of his chest but the light coming in through the open door was helping. The walls were further apart than he'd thought after all.   
  
Ringo looked a little put out that he'd got his metaphor wrong. "Erm - happy as a cucumber?"  
  
George just gave a choked, teary kind of snort-laugh. "Keep trying."  
  
"I meant you look like shit, son," Ringo pointed out bluntly.  
  
"Huh. Well, th-thanks." George knew there were bags under his eyes and his hair was a mess from running his hands through it. He was exhausted. They all were, really.   
  
He took in a few deep breaths ( _in through the nose, two three four, out through the mouth, two three four, repeat_ ). "Sorry - I'll be back down there soon, just give us a mo'," he managed to choke out, fiddling with his shoelaces and avoiding eye contact.   
  
There were footsteps and the door closed then George was left in the dark again. He sighed in relief, glad Ringo wasn't going to interrogate him, then sat with his legs crossed, ready to calm himself down with maybe a bit of meditation in a quiet room.   
  
Then the light was switched on and he flinched. Ringo slid down the door to sit next to him and put an arm around George's shoulders, pulling him closer.  
  
"Oh, you - I thought you were going to leave. You crafty little bugger," George mumbled.  
  
"Sorry, you're not going to be able to get rid of me. I'm not gonna leave you when yer in a right state like this."  
  
"I'm not in a - I'm perfectly fine-" George huffed. "Urgh. Can a Beatle not have one moment of peace and quiet?"  
  
"Nah," Ringo said. "It's the drawback of the job."   
  
"Oh won't you just - piss off and leave us alone, yeah?" George muttered grumpily. "I don't need anyone right now, least of all you."  
  
He felt a little guilty for the harsh words but if Ringo was hurt he didn't show it.   
  
"George-" the drummer whispered, bringing him in closer to his side embrace. "Your hands are shaking."   
  
George stared at his pale, trembling hands and wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to hide it. "'M fine," he protested weakly. “Just cold.”  
  
He flinched when Ringo gently took a hold of his arms and pulled them away from his self-embrace. He held one of George's hands and pressed it to his chest, with both of them feeling the guitarist's heartbeat. "Your heart feels like you've been running a marathon." Then Ringo rubbed his shoulder in an effort to comfort him. "And you're not breathing right. What's wrong?"  
  
George felt a pressure building up behind his eyes and a dryness in his throat and felt like he might cry. No one had been this tender and caring with him in what felt like forever. Sometimes he hated Ringo for how soft and gentle and calming he would be in the worst situations. He could be yelling at him or rearing for a fight and all Ringo would have to do is hug him and he'd instantly forget what he was angry about.  
  
“It’s just –“ George muttered, staring at his hands.. “Everything got to be a bit too much, is all. Paul was talking about going up on the roof and I can’t – and then what John said about me songs – and me and Pattie are arguing – and I feel like everything’s falling apart and _God_ , I wish Eppy was ‘ere to tell us all to get a grip and pull our shit together–“  
  
“Y’know, you don’t have to go up on the roof if you don’t want to,” Ringo said, bumping his shoulder. “Yer afraid of heights or something? We can find somewhere else to play, somewhere that’s not so bleedin’ high up and cold.“  
  
“No, I’m not scared of heights –“ George muttered. “I don’t want to… I _can’t_ play live again.”  
  
“Why not?” Ringo questioned.  
  
George flushed red, feeling ashamed of himself. “Ah, um, I get nervous, like, I get really anxious.”  
  
“Oh, so do I,” Ringo said sympathetically. “I get a bit of butterflies in me stomach so I always run on stage to make sure I don’t back out – but then it’s fine when I get behind the kit and start drummin’. The nerves are always worth the thrill of playing.”

“No, I don’t mean like that,” George said, frustrated. “I mean – you remember Shea Stadium? I had a panic attack when I saw the crowd. And in Memphis, when we thought we was gonna get shot and some kid set off a firework – I was sick in the hotel bathroom after. And – and every time when we got mobbed or punched or attacked by screaming kids I’d be left shaking. I don’t want to – I _hate_ it–“  
  
He was working himself up again and breathing shakily.  
  
“Hey,” Ringo murmured, pulling him into an embrace. George buried his face in the space between Ringo’s neck and shoulder and wrapped his arms around him, holding onto him tight and not letting go. It felt like he hadn’t hugged his best friend in ages. Ringo smelled nice – like coffee and smoke and apple shampoo. “Now you listen to me, George Harrison. It’s not performing you’re anxious about. You love performing and I know that because of the silly grin you always have when you’re singing with the boys. You’re just scared of people, big crowds mobbing you, and yer scared that something’ll go terribly wrong. And that _makes sense_. It’s ok to be worried about tha’– “

George opened his mouth to object and tried to pull away from the hug. Ringo just held onto him tightly.

“No, look,” Ringo whispered. “Everything will be fine. If we go on the roof, the crowd won’t be thousands of people and even if it is they won’t be able to reach us. There won’t be kids screaming or trying to pull out yer hair as a keepsake – it’ll just be passers-by and stuck up southerners complaining about the noise.“  
  
The corner’s of George’s mouth quirked up. "I guess so… at least they'll be able to hear us for once,” he conceded quietly. Ringo's hug was calming and he was starting to realise that he was just overthinking, and there was no reason to be so anxious.   
  
“Yeah and we’ll be great – for the first time in six years we’ll be able to hear what we’re playing! And we’ve ‘ad years of practice too, we’ve improved so much since our last gig and we got new songs–”  
  
“’Course we’ll be great, we’re the bloody Beatles aren’t we?” George smirked.  
  
Ringo ruffled his hair. “What do you say? Do it for me, eh?”

“Aye,” George replied, sighing. “It can’t be that bad. I was just – working meself up into a state overthinking everything.”  
  
“Ta,” Ringo said, sounding relieved. “Y’know, this is very important for Paul – Lord knows why, it’s only a bloody roof and it’s zero degrees outside – but he really wants us to play in front of an audience again, maybe he’s thinking – maybe he’s thinking it’ll keep us all together. That it’ll, I don’t know, ignite the fire again or something.”  
  
There was a sombre, reflective silence for a moment. Both of them knew that at this point, nothing could keep them together for much longer. Neither mentioned it.  
  
"What're people going to say? About two Beatles running off to embrace in a small dark cupboard?" George asked jokingly, pulling away from the hug.  
  
"Well, if the nosy buggers ask, I'll tell them we lead a secret double life as lovers and actually live together in the countryside with four adopted kids and a goldfish," Ringo said, shrugging. "And that we got married three years ago, with John as the bridesmaid and Paul as the flowergirl."   
  
"That's... oddly specific," George looked at his friend with faked concern, but couldn't stop himself from grinning. The disturbing mental image of Paul in a frilly white dress with his hairy legs showing, and throwing petals down the aisle, wouldn't leave his head.  
  
He chuckled quietly to himself.  
  
Ringo stared at him, smiling sheepishly. "Cute as a button," he blurted out. Then his face flushed. "Er - I mean, I think that's the saying I were thinking of earlier. That you looked cute as a button. Or cute as a cucumber?"  
  
George inhaled sharply and then choked. "Oh - fucking hell Ritchie, d'you realise how queer that sounds?" But he couldn't stop the blush from spreading across his cheeks.  
  
"Well - it was ironic - I was being sarcast- nevermind," Ringo stammered. Then he lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper and George had to strain to hear. "Although maybe Paul isn't the one who should have the reputation as the cute Beatle."  
  
George stared at the wall for a moment, trying to process what the drummer had just said. Ringo was being awfully forward. Did he really think that George was "cute"? Was this his awkward way of flirting? What the hell?  
  
"Huh?" George asked, speechless.  
  
"Oh - um," Ringo stuttered.  
  
There was an awkward silence that seemed to last a lifetime while realistically it could have only been a few seconds at most. George felt breathless again. His face was warm and his eyes were wide, but not in a panicky, anxious way. He was... embarrassed? His heart was fluttering inside his chest, beating loud enough that surely Ringo could hear.  
  
"Um, er, thanks," George blurted out, not wanting the quiet to last any longer. "You're not so bad yourself. And thanks, Ritchie, for everything. Y’know, for calming me down.”  
  
“Oh, nah, lad, it’s nothing –” Ringo started to protest.  
  
George put a hand over Ringo’s mouth to shut him up. “No, really, thank you. I don’t think we thank or appreciate you enough for putting up with all of our bullshit. You must have the patience of a saint. And The Beatles would be nothing without you – that’s what we realised when you left us last year. We knew then what bastards we’d been – well at least I did, I don’t know if John’d ever admit he’s a bastard – and we knew how much we need you, as a band. As friends.”  
  
Ringo beamed. “Well, I don’t know what to say to that. You’ve gone soft, son.”  
  
George stood up, biting his lip shyly and holding out his hand to pull his favourite drummer up. “Shut up, you. And don't ye dare tell anyone this happened.”  
  
But he couldn't stop himself from smiling.   
  
When they turned out the light and left the cupboard, he may have forgotten to let go of Ritchie’s hand for a moment, and that moment extended for a comfortable while, until he only remembered to let go when they reached the 3rd floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and make me happy as a cucumber :)


End file.
